Banana Republic
by Be3
Summary: And he turns his head, and looks you in the eye, and suddenly, you are no longer afraid of the Jolly Jail or the Scuffed Scaffold, or even of the trampling feet of the high and mighty.


Disclaimer: not mine. But I believe they are in good hands.

A/N: it always struck me how perfunctory Jedi missions seem. They are usually helped by local people; but what if the local people are unreliable?

Banana Republic

To an untrained eye, the Post-Reception Hall resembles an asylum for megalomaniacs perfecting stage whisper in case of falling from grace and crying their throats raw in the Jolly Jail; maidens who so love ancient poetry they converse explicitly _in high voices_ which generally leave you wishing for earplugs or better education for women; fools bearing gigantic hourglasses and tripping each other to the public's chorused dismay or cheer, and many, many others.

The exit is, of course, guarded by two dwarfish Men of the Crown: morose, punctual, and arguably cheaper than a revolving door.

There are also two silent Ambassadors sitting near the fist-dented Wall of Deeply Buried Expectations. With their plain clothing, polite temperance and poorly hidden sanity, they seem a bit out of place; but as Jedi, an untrained eye attached to an equally untrained brain wouldn't spot them.

Overall, since it is a bit calmer in the corner where the Ambassadors hide, why don't you nestle somewhere nearby and take a look at the offwolders. _Jedi_ means _Coruscant_; _adventure_; _omnipotence _- everything the surrounding squash would squash your lifeblood out if they get a wind of their presence, and you get underfoot. So conceal your delight; who knows, you might yet see tomorrow.

The taller one, the one with the funny ponytail, holds a leash restricting their fool's traditional antics, thus keeping him from flipping his tool over to prolong their predicament. His face is nigh expressionless, but his Pupil would tell us he is annoyed. Mostly because the Pupil himself is annoyed, and a freshman in the Big Game.

The shorter - and younger - sighs. He looks at his own chrono to find that there are still 25 Standard minutes to pass, which is approximately 28.65 Local.

'Master,' he says.

'Yes?'

'It - is - _dull_ - here.'

'So it is.'

'What is the point to detain people after they actually had an audience?'

The other one shrugs listlessly. It is their twelfth reception, and he must have become bored by the procedure. Or by the fashion. Or maybe, just maybe, he thinks of lives being lost, and can't understand.

The tradition was forged in the Dark Ages, when the King's Council had to work out detailed Plans of Defence and Attack (mostly Defence) after the King authorized the general course of action. It usually took an hour. We don't have a Council or a King anymore, and wars are planned by tacticians in their fortified cellars, but the sacred hour of reflection is observed very thoroughly.

It's Fell'an'Fell to you, dearest. It's where we live.

'What a planet,' mutters the younger one.

'Obi-Wan, you know very well what our objectives are, and changing local customs is not one of them.' There is a breath of unrest in his voice, though.

'Well, it should be! We are wasting our time. _They_ are wasting our time.'

'What do you propose?' The older Jedi feigns indifference, but his Pupil can tell he is genuinely curious.

'Let's play Power-Greedy Villains.'

'Obi-Wan!'

'You said yourself, the sooner we finish the negotiations, the sooner we can leave.'

'It is _not_ a reason to go all unorthodox on them.'

'Ah.'

They stare at each other for a Local minute. Then, a particularly rhyme-driven wench trips over the older one's neatly tucked legs in desperate hope to be caught and never let go.

'Tie the tentacles of Fate, diddle, diddle, clumsy, clumsy... You don't love me, do you?'

She peers at him closely. He regrets to confirm that indeed he doesn't. She swears and sails away.

'See? Patient does the trick, Padawan.'

She reappears on the horizon, three poetry-armed friends in tow.

'And discretion is the better part of valour. Master, we have nothing to lose and everything to gain.'

'If only I would be able to explain it all to Mace Windu... Fine.'

The Ambassadors stand up. The older one waves a hand and proclaims:

'Ladies and Gentlemen! We have come to free you -'

You don't know what he had in mind, but somehow you doubt it was the unified cry of _'Liberty!_' bursting from two hundred thirty disgruntled beings. Everyone sings, hugs, punches, kisses and otherwise expresses their happiness. The Men guarding the exit yawn. The fools glare at the intruders.

'Impressive,' says the Pupil gratefully.

'Useless,' counters the Master. They watch the milling throng.

'How long 'til we're out of here?'

'Fourteen point three.'

They fold their hands in a somewhat similar manner. It will be no less than five minutes before the crowd would reverse to its usual lethargy.

'Wish we could meditate.'

'I rather fear we have already overtaxed our hosts' hospitality.'

Obi-Wan sighs again. They have fulfilled their appointed task; soon, they will deliver the Treaty to the other side of the conflict. Somehow, it doesn't bring him satisfaction.

'I know,' nods the older Jedi. Wish we could make them see reason. Wish we could go outside and deflect all blaster bolts from the innocent.

_Wish we could break the glossy shell that isn't any different upside down than it is the right side up._

And he turns his head, and looks you in the eye, and suddenly, _you are_ _no longer afraid_ of the Jolly Jail or the Scuffed Scaffold, or even of the trampling feet of the high and mighty.

Because there is someone out there, who have seen Fell'an'Fell and haven't given up on it. As you won't.


End file.
